Yeah, I see what you mean. I didn't expect writing an AAR to be such a huge project... Writing 3 at a time must be excruciating!
-
We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Part Four, Chapter Thirty-Eight, The Colour of Death, the Sound of Drums
The count opened his eyes wearily, before closing them again. He winced as he felt a hard pain shoot through him. He tried rolling to one side, moving his head gently so as to not aggravate any further jolts. His vision was still blurred, but he could make out the rough outline of Turpin lying next to him. The horse's head sprawled out over the ground lifelessly. As Herbert's vision began to clear, he could make out the beast's eye - glassed over and cold, still frozen in perpetual terror. Herbert tried to move himself away, but was met with a sharp, wincing pain in his legs. He let a muttered curse, closing his eyes tightly to try and subdue the pain.
Herbert relaxed his muscles in an attempt to slip back into a painless sleep. As he did so, he became aware of how cold he was. He could feel his legs shivering violently. He tried to stop, but only provoked a further shock of pain. The count winced again, his head falling back onto the found below him. As he hit the soft grass, he became aware of how wet it was. As uncomfortable as it was, Herbert let himself sink further into the grass, all the while praying that sleep would overcome him.
The count awoke to the sound of heavy footsteps upon the stone floor. He writhed slightly, feeling a sharp dampness against the nape of his neck, seeping through his hair. His vision was stilled blurred, but he could just make out the fuzzed silhouette of brown boots against the stone. As his vision sharpened, Herbert began to make out uniform lines obstructing his view. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his sight. The bars remained, growing slightly less fuzzy with every opening and closing of his eyelids. Herbert tried to sit up, but felt his back drag him back towards the floor. The abruptness of the movement sent him unceremoniously to the floor. He tried to push himself up, still dazed, unable to fathom why he had been unable to move. He motioned his hands towards the floor in his mind's eye, visualising them pressing against what he had discerned to be the cold, damp stone floor, lifting his body upwards. The movement never came. Herbert turned his head to get a better look at his hands, fastened stiff behind his back. As he turned, a sharp pain winced through his neck from when he had fell. The he remembered. The noise. The smell of sweat smoke, and burning flesh and hair. The crimson red seeping unrepentantly into the verdant ground. His vision clouded and his mind concussed. The rushed shouting and voices. The gathered mass of people and the stench they brought of sweat and smoke, and burning flesh and hair. Then he was moving. Steadily. Not as if he were supporting himself. How could he be - he was paralysed by the shock, let alone the fall itself. No - he was mounted. Riding through the field, now stained a deep reddish black. The colour of death. Herbert remembered a deep blackness, then a dim light. Then waking and feeling blurred.
The battle's aftermath.
His hands were tied behind his back, the coarse rope scratching against the soft skin on his wrists. Herbert paled, beginning to sweat in an unrestrained burst of panic. He had been taken prisoner. He was alive, subject to the folly of a bastard duke, but a prisoner nonetheless. The count looked around, taking in his surroundings. The dank cell. The constant, background-noise dripping of dirty water from the ceiling. The cloying silence, choking him until all sanity seemed like it would burst forth from within him and quit his body. Herbert regained composure, his eyes now becoming heavy with sweat, unable to wipe his brow. It was then he realised just how tired he was, slipping gratefully into the deep, velvet-black embrace of sleep.
"...so that's why you've got to be bloody careful out there lad." Charles hadn't been listening. In truth, he had stopped paying attention to the veteran captain around five minutes ago.
"Thank you, Richard." Charles nodded a goodbye to the captain, before gently signalling for his horse to make its way over to a rather garish tent, draped in deep blue fabrics and gold leaf. He sighed at the expense, seeing the tent caked in mud in his mind's eye, surrounded by blood and dirt, and acrid musket smoke. The tent's flaps lifted as one of his aides gestured him inside rather too obsequiously. Charles' parting thoughts were that the tent would turn out to be auspicious.
Charles wasn't looking forward to meeting his generals again. It had been hard enough keep half of his mind focused on Richard as he rattled through the story of Herbert's Capture. Charles had come to loathe Herbert - or rather, he had come to loathe that he did so. The stories of Herbert and Adalbert were told all over France, like the tales of the Paladins of old. Peasantry and gentry alike were regaled by the tales of love and valour - bravery and justice. Despair and sorrow. By the age of six, Charles could recite three dozen of the tales by rote. They had been vital to his upbringing, his damnable tutors somehow seeing fit to slot folklore in between Latin and Rhetoric on virtually a daily basis.
Charles had already entered the tent, unaware that he had been moving, so engrossed he was in his thoughts. A ruddy gentleman stood before him, clad head to toe in a rather tight-looking suit of armour. His complexion was made even more prominent by the fact that, in his suit, he was seemingly struggling to breathe. He made a gesture of recognition, and was quickly set at ease by Charles.
"Sire," he began, "a Luxembourger scout contingent was sighted around the crest of a hill just a mile off. They were unarmed - surprisingly - but we feel we should prepare for an attack all the same." Charles knew comparatively little of military matters, leaving tactics and such to his generals. He smiled at the thought - he was rather like Herbert in that regard.
"Fine. Yes, go ahead. Form the ranks."
"Of course, sire." The generals filed out of the tent, clanking as they walked, each bowing almost curtly to Charles as he left. Alone again, Charles was thankful for the silence. He felt strangely relaxed considering he was in the middle of a battlefield. Closing his eyes, he tried to identify all of the things he could hear - a sort of mental exercise. Outside of the tent he could hear the low murmur of men preparing themselves for battle, loading muskets, shining swords. There were a few bragging inexplicably about some antique or other. Those were the simple folk. Charles laughed. They probably adored Herbert, with entertainment aside frisk stories being hard to come by in some of the more remote towns and villages.
Charles pened his eyes again. He could heard something unusual, only faintly. As if far away, in the background of the scene. Stealth-like. Repetitive.
Drums.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The count opened his eyes wearily, before closing them again. He winced as he felt a hard pain shoot through him. He tried rolling to one side, moving his head gently so as to not aggravate any further jolts. His vision was still blurred, but he could make out the rough outline of Turpin lying next to him. The horse's head sprawled out over the ground lifelessly. As Herbert's vision began to clear, he could make out the beast's eye - glassed over and cold, still frozen in perpetual terror. Herbert tried to move himself away, but was met with a sharp, wincing pain in his legs. He let a muttered curse, closing his eyes tightly to try and subdue the pain.
Herbert relaxed his muscles in an attempt to slip back into a painless sleep. As he did so, he became aware of how cold he was. He could feel his legs shivering violently. He tried to stop, but only provoked a further shock of pain. The count winced again, his head falling back onto the found below him. As he hit the soft grass, he became aware of how wet it was. As uncomfortable as it was, Herbert let himself sink further into the grass, all the while praying that sleep would overcome him.
The count awoke to the sound of heavy footsteps upon the stone floor. He writhed slightly, feeling a sharp dampness against the nape of his neck, seeping through his hair. His vision was stilled blurred, but he could just make out the fuzzed silhouette of brown boots against the stone. As his vision sharpened, Herbert began to make out uniform lines obstructing his view. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his sight. The bars remained, growing slightly less fuzzy with every opening and closing of his eyelids. Herbert tried to sit up, but felt his back drag him back towards the floor. The abruptness of the movement sent him unceremoniously to the floor. He tried to push himself up, still dazed, unable to fathom why he had been unable to move. He motioned his hands towards the floor in his mind's eye, visualising them pressing against what he had discerned to be the cold, damp stone floor, lifting his body upwards. The movement never came. Herbert turned his head to get a better look at his hands, fastened stiff behind his back. As he turned, a sharp pain winced through his neck from when he had fell. The he remembered. The noise. The smell of sweat smoke, and burning flesh and hair. The crimson red seeping unrepentantly into the verdant ground. His vision clouded and his mind concussed. The rushed shouting and voices. The gathered mass of people and the stench they brought of sweat and smoke, and burning flesh and hair. Then he was moving. Steadily. Not as if he were supporting himself. How could he be - he was paralysed by the shock, let alone the fall itself. No - he was mounted. Riding through the field, now stained a deep reddish black. The colour of death. Herbert remembered a deep blackness, then a dim light. Then waking and feeling blurred.
The battle's aftermath.
His hands were tied behind his back, the coarse rope scratching against the soft skin on his wrists. Herbert paled, beginning to sweat in an unrestrained burst of panic. He had been taken prisoner. He was alive, subject to the folly of a bastard duke, but a prisoner nonetheless. The count looked around, taking in his surroundings. The dank cell. The constant, background-noise dripping of dirty water from the ceiling. The cloying silence, choking him until all sanity seemed like it would burst forth from within him and quit his body. Herbert regained composure, his eyes now becoming heavy with sweat, unable to wipe his brow. It was then he realised just how tired he was, slipping gratefully into the deep, velvet-black embrace of sleep.
"...so that's why you've got to be bloody careful out there lad." Charles hadn't been listening. In truth, he had stopped paying attention to the veteran captain around five minutes ago.
"Thank you, Richard." Charles nodded a goodbye to the captain, before gently signalling for his horse to make its way over to a rather garish tent, draped in deep blue fabrics and gold leaf. He sighed at the expense, seeing the tent caked in mud in his mind's eye, surrounded by blood and dirt, and acrid musket smoke. The tent's flaps lifted as one of his aides gestured him inside rather too obsequiously. Charles' parting thoughts were that the tent would turn out to be auspicious.
Charles wasn't looking forward to meeting his generals again. It had been hard enough keep half of his mind focused on Richard as he rattled through the story of Herbert's Capture. Charles had come to loathe Herbert - or rather, he had come to loathe that he did so. The stories of Herbert and Adalbert were told all over France, like the tales of the Paladins of old. Peasantry and gentry alike were regaled by the tales of love and valour - bravery and justice. Despair and sorrow. By the age of six, Charles could recite three dozen of the tales by rote. They had been vital to his upbringing, his damnable tutors somehow seeing fit to slot folklore in between Latin and Rhetoric on virtually a daily basis.
Charles had already entered the tent, unaware that he had been moving, so engrossed he was in his thoughts. A ruddy gentleman stood before him, clad head to toe in a rather tight-looking suit of armour. His complexion was made even more prominent by the fact that, in his suit, he was seemingly struggling to breathe. He made a gesture of recognition, and was quickly set at ease by Charles.
"Sire," he began, "a Luxembourger scout contingent was sighted around the crest of a hill just a mile off. They were unarmed - surprisingly - but we feel we should prepare for an attack all the same." Charles knew comparatively little of military matters, leaving tactics and such to his generals. He smiled at the thought - he was rather like Herbert in that regard.
"Fine. Yes, go ahead. Form the ranks."
"Of course, sire." The generals filed out of the tent, clanking as they walked, each bowing almost curtly to Charles as he left. Alone again, Charles was thankful for the silence. He felt strangely relaxed considering he was in the middle of a battlefield. Closing his eyes, he tried to identify all of the things he could hear - a sort of mental exercise. Outside of the tent he could hear the low murmur of men preparing themselves for battle, loading muskets, shining swords. There were a few bragging inexplicably about some antique or other. Those were the simple folk. Charles laughed. They probably adored Herbert, with entertainment aside frisk stories being hard to come by in some of the more remote towns and villages.
Charles pened his eyes again. He could heard something unusual, only faintly. As if far away, in the background of the scene. Stealth-like. Repetitive.
Drums.
To be continued...
Last edited:
Hmmm, Herbert was/is the prisoner from the side/future plot a few chapters back? And who is this Charles who leads an army and has been raised on the folktales of Herbert since he was a young boy?
Interesting, was wondering what Herbert's fate had been. Also curious about this Charles guy, perhaps a descendant of Herbert?
Yep. Rather unfortunate, really - things will get worse before they get better.
Got it in one. As for Charles, you'll have to wait and see.
Glad I could enlighten you
Charles will prove an interesting character (I hope.)As always, thanks for commenting everyone - it means a lot.
4.39: The Firing of a Musket
The primal scream rang out across the field, leaving echoes of noise bouncing forth from the scores of suits of metal armour, and leaving an irritating scratched feeling in Jean's throat as if he were a musket, being cleaned vigorously with an old ramrod. He turned in his saddle. Behind him stood the entire Aquitain army. The Couchant Army. His army. Charles was no military man, as he so openly professed, and took a somewhat more junior command role. Jean de Malaucéne-Cremona was the general, and he sat now, atop his horse, ordering the advance.
Behind him, the first few swordsmen began to run towards the Luxembourger ranks. He spurred his horse on and began toward them himself, followed close behind by four dozen sets of hooves. Ranks of arquebusiers made their way to more optimal firing positions, the dull, wet, muffled thump of supporting sticks delving further into the soft ground following close behind the hurried shuffling of feet and armour as they set their weapons. Jean listened for the familiar hail of clicks as dozens of locks ignited their fuses, the subtle sound audible over the din of the battle to the general, his ears grizzled by decades of fighting. He put his hands up to his face to cover his mouth as the dirty crack of the guns firing shot through the air, now thick with the acrid smell of saltpetre.
As the arquebusiers began to reload their weapons, the cavalry thundered past, Jean spurring his horse to head them. Each rider sat with their sword outstretched, held ready to drive deep into Rampant throats. They clashed with the Rampant army in a brutal fashion, horses rearing on both sides, stamping madly and tearing the soft ground underfoot to a soft mud. Jean felt his horse's hind legs slipping further, spurring him on to avoid becoming stuck, narrowly avoiding a now bloodied sword as he did so. He turned in his saddle to face his assailant, parrying his blows while trying desperately to keep his horse free from the clasping mud underfoot. The general's opposite was having no such luck, sliding about his saddle as his horse, now speckled with a dark mud, struggled to no avail with the terrain. Jean saw his opponent's face; the look of panic in his eyes as he sensed a final blow hanging ominously in his mind. He closed his eyes and lunged his sword forward. The blade was greeted by the soft sound of metal penetrating flesh, and bid farewell by the strangled gurgling of Jean's opposite as he slid in his saddle for a final time, landing on the thick ground with a heavy thud. The general had landed a blow to his neck, his sword reading deep into his assailant's throat. Jean didn't know if he would have died instantly, praying that he may be knocked unconscious by the hooves of some passing cavalryman's horse so as not to have to suffer knowingly. He closed his eyes, took a pregnant breath, and drove himself back into the mêlée.
A contemporary woodcut depicting the battle.
Charles wended his way through a cluster of bushes behind his tent. All of his commanders were Out there somewhere, toiling in the mud on horseback against the Rampants. He hated the word, chastising himself mentally for thinking it. He often forgot that it was his cousin that he was fighting. The mud and gore of the war did much to obscure that fact, but could not do so completely. Charles craned his neck absentmindedly to get a better view of the fighting, trying to pick his cousin out of the mass of dulled silver shifting about the field heavily. Louis had always been better with his sword than most, so Charles had no doubt that he'd be out there somewhere. Not wandering around the command tent until someone came back to say that the army had been successful - that, or that everyone had been killed. In reality, Charles' presence at the tent was a formality. None of his generals would dare question his authority, yet they never stopped in proceedings to ask his opinion.
Charles cared little, though. Being a third son, no one ever expected him to inherit, so he had been educated in diplomacy as a child in the hope that he may serve his brothers as an ambassador to one of the more prestigious courts of Europe. England, perhaps, or maybe Austria. But then Henri had died of consumption, and when Francis had refused to wake one morning, Charles had been left as king.
King Charles, shown in his mid-thirties.
"Sire." Charles turned around as he was snapped out of his thoughts by a gruff voice. Much to his displeasure, he knew exactly to whom he was now speaking. Before him stood Richard Béràlier, one of his captain, straight as a new arrow and with his matted helmet clutched under his arm. Charles had only just managed to clear his mind of Herbert. No doubt the captain would make yet another reference to the man, so enamoured as he was with him.
"Richard." Charles drew back on his diplomatic training and feigned a smile. "I trust you bring good news." As he spoke, the king noticed that his captain was caked in blood.
"I do indeed, sire. Karl-Wilhelm von Sahr has been captured." Charles racked his brain, unsure as to why this was important. He evidently, took too long, as Richard was quick to respond.
"von Sahr is your cousin's nephew, my liege, and a colonel in Louis' cavalry." Richard spoke quickly, trying to avoid embarrassing the king, who he knew loathed being made to look ignorant. Charles was keen to move on.
Wilhelm Graf von Sahr.
"What does this mean for us?"
"A great deal, sire. Wilhelm was the most senior commander on the field today - your cousin had chosen to stay in his tent for some reason—"
"Louis didn't fight?" Charles sounded concerned, much to the confusion of the captain.
"Yes, sire, but—"
"And we are unsure as to the reason?" Richard looked visibly annoyed.
"That correct, sire. Now if you would allow me to continue."
"I would advise that you remember to whom you are talking," the king chided authoritatively.
"My apologies, your highness, but this had important repercussions."
"And what would those be?"
"Sire, we have carried the day."
Chapter Thirty Nine
The primal scream rang out across the field, leaving echoes of noise bouncing forth from the scores of suits of metal armour, and leaving an irritating scratched feeling in Jean's throat as if he were a musket, being cleaned vigorously with an old ramrod. He turned in his saddle. Behind him stood the entire Aquitain army. The Couchant Army. His army. Charles was no military man, as he so openly professed, and took a somewhat more junior command role. Jean de Malaucéne-Cremona was the general, and he sat now, atop his horse, ordering the advance.
Behind him, the first few swordsmen began to run towards the Luxembourger ranks. He spurred his horse on and began toward them himself, followed close behind by four dozen sets of hooves. Ranks of arquebusiers made their way to more optimal firing positions, the dull, wet, muffled thump of supporting sticks delving further into the soft ground following close behind the hurried shuffling of feet and armour as they set their weapons. Jean listened for the familiar hail of clicks as dozens of locks ignited their fuses, the subtle sound audible over the din of the battle to the general, his ears grizzled by decades of fighting. He put his hands up to his face to cover his mouth as the dirty crack of the guns firing shot through the air, now thick with the acrid smell of saltpetre.
As the arquebusiers began to reload their weapons, the cavalry thundered past, Jean spurring his horse to head them. Each rider sat with their sword outstretched, held ready to drive deep into Rampant throats. They clashed with the Rampant army in a brutal fashion, horses rearing on both sides, stamping madly and tearing the soft ground underfoot to a soft mud. Jean felt his horse's hind legs slipping further, spurring him on to avoid becoming stuck, narrowly avoiding a now bloodied sword as he did so. He turned in his saddle to face his assailant, parrying his blows while trying desperately to keep his horse free from the clasping mud underfoot. The general's opposite was having no such luck, sliding about his saddle as his horse, now speckled with a dark mud, struggled to no avail with the terrain. Jean saw his opponent's face; the look of panic in his eyes as he sensed a final blow hanging ominously in his mind. He closed his eyes and lunged his sword forward. The blade was greeted by the soft sound of metal penetrating flesh, and bid farewell by the strangled gurgling of Jean's opposite as he slid in his saddle for a final time, landing on the thick ground with a heavy thud. The general had landed a blow to his neck, his sword reading deep into his assailant's throat. Jean didn't know if he would have died instantly, praying that he may be knocked unconscious by the hooves of some passing cavalryman's horse so as not to have to suffer knowingly. He closed his eyes, took a pregnant breath, and drove himself back into the mêlée.
A contemporary woodcut depicting the battle.
Charles wended his way through a cluster of bushes behind his tent. All of his commanders were Out there somewhere, toiling in the mud on horseback against the Rampants. He hated the word, chastising himself mentally for thinking it. He often forgot that it was his cousin that he was fighting. The mud and gore of the war did much to obscure that fact, but could not do so completely. Charles craned his neck absentmindedly to get a better view of the fighting, trying to pick his cousin out of the mass of dulled silver shifting about the field heavily. Louis had always been better with his sword than most, so Charles had no doubt that he'd be out there somewhere. Not wandering around the command tent until someone came back to say that the army had been successful - that, or that everyone had been killed. In reality, Charles' presence at the tent was a formality. None of his generals would dare question his authority, yet they never stopped in proceedings to ask his opinion.
Charles cared little, though. Being a third son, no one ever expected him to inherit, so he had been educated in diplomacy as a child in the hope that he may serve his brothers as an ambassador to one of the more prestigious courts of Europe. England, perhaps, or maybe Austria. But then Henri had died of consumption, and when Francis had refused to wake one morning, Charles had been left as king.
King Charles, shown in his mid-thirties.
"Sire." Charles turned around as he was snapped out of his thoughts by a gruff voice. Much to his displeasure, he knew exactly to whom he was now speaking. Before him stood Richard Béràlier, one of his captain, straight as a new arrow and with his matted helmet clutched under his arm. Charles had only just managed to clear his mind of Herbert. No doubt the captain would make yet another reference to the man, so enamoured as he was with him.
"Richard." Charles drew back on his diplomatic training and feigned a smile. "I trust you bring good news." As he spoke, the king noticed that his captain was caked in blood.
"I do indeed, sire. Karl-Wilhelm von Sahr has been captured." Charles racked his brain, unsure as to why this was important. He evidently, took too long, as Richard was quick to respond.
"von Sahr is your cousin's nephew, my liege, and a colonel in Louis' cavalry." Richard spoke quickly, trying to avoid embarrassing the king, who he knew loathed being made to look ignorant. Charles was keen to move on.
Wilhelm Graf von Sahr.
"What does this mean for us?"
"A great deal, sire. Wilhelm was the most senior commander on the field today - your cousin had chosen to stay in his tent for some reason—"
"Louis didn't fight?" Charles sounded concerned, much to the confusion of the captain.
"Yes, sire, but—"
"And we are unsure as to the reason?" Richard looked visibly annoyed.
"That correct, sire. Now if you would allow me to continue."
"I would advise that you remember to whom you are talking," the king chided authoritatively.
"My apologies, your highness, but this had important repercussions."
"And what would those be?"
"Sire, we have carried the day."
To be continued...
It can not be true! DensleyBlair actually got around to writing something else than Liberalen's works! In fact, this is your first update since my AAR started
It can not be true! DensleyBlair actually got around to writing something else than Liberalen's works! In fact, this is your first update since my AAR started
Indeed, I have finally got round to updating. It's been over a month, which is quite scary actually.
Muskets? What witchcraft is this? I cannot tell if this is a flash-forward to hint at Herbert's legacy or if the previous thirty-something chapters have been a flashback in some cunning ruse to disguise the true nature of this tale.
Let's just pretend it's a hand cannon - even though that soldier most certainly looks like a Reconquistador.
Don't worry - it'll get a lot more confusing soon
I had it down as an arquebus. We're in the mid 16th century at the moment.
Wait, what? When did you make a leap like this? Or was all of this another story-within-a-story all along? And I always thought I was baffled ...
In any case rudimentary firearms like the hand cannon had existed in Europe for quite some time, certainly before the EU3's 1399 start and well within CK2's timeframe, so it would be possible for someone of reasonable means to own and know how to use them. However, the actual use of them in organised warfare did not come until the 15th century, which would be after CK2, as a result of the early models' unreliability against plate armour.
After the line break in chapter 4.38. Then we jumped to mid 16c. It's incredibly confusing and probably a bit pretentious. Enjoy!
Just caught up with this, been meandering through for a while. With this and Norfolk, you're a very talented writer. This reads like a book (that's a good thing) and the different viewpoints/framing devices/whatever are weaved together beautifully, looking forward to seeing the relevance of Charles (are our Karlings still ruling?)
Thanks for sticking through with this, Tyler - it means a lot. And thanks a lot for your compliments - they're the things that keep you writing, as you'll know.
As for Charles, all will soon be revealed.
War! Rebellion! Intrigue! Cliffhangers! and THE FUTURE (relatively speaking)!! and all in one AAR! I for one am very curious as to who Charles really is, who are these Luxembuorgers are, why they are fighting, and exactly what does Charles rule? Oh, and what happened to dear Herb?
I can't wait to find out!
Also, did you actually finish a CK2 game and convert to EU3 or did you make up the history?
I can't wait to find out!
Also, did you actually finish a CK2 game and convert to EU3 or did you make up the history?
Thanks Dovahkiing - good to see you back for good.
All will be revealed soon, apropos the time shift and new characters. As for converting the game, as you may remember this was rendered uplayable around December. I've had an alternate history in mind since about then.
I'll have the next update up soon.
And ramrods weren't invented until the mid 1700s. The early arquebus was a heavy thing and required two men. One to aim and the other to ignite the gunpowder with a slow match (serpentine). Gun sights were invented mid-fifteenth century. Early muskets (16th century) were less clumsy but still required a fork for the barrel to rest on to steady the aim. However, they provided more punch than the earlier arquebus.
All that aside, I have to join the ranks of mildly confused, too. So let's unconfuse us with the next update
4.40: The Ransoming of Peace
"Charles." Louis nodded curtly as his cousin rode up to him. The pair hadn't seen each other for the best part of a year, but were in no position for pleasantries. Charles guided his horse so that he sat perpendicular to Louis.
"Louis." He returned the gesture of greeting, though it slipped unnoticed off Louis' expression, aloof, though not showing contempt.
In different circumstances, the two may have addressed each other with some alacrity. Charles had always liked his cousin, whom he found intelligent and witty. Likewise, Louis enjoyed the occasions on which a social visit to the royal estate would be necessitated. The king as articulate, and keen in conversation. Here, though, on the battlefield, Louis and Charles only acknowledged each other begrudgingly. Conversation aside from the formal negotiations was out of the question. The was the great tragedy of war, thought Charles, that cousins and brothers must come to regard each other in such cold manners. We will all die, but we must not live in contempt of our families.
"I understand you wish to negotiate the return of my nephew. I trust he has not been maltreated." Louis opened the discussions matter-of-factly.
"You trust correctly, Louis. Karl-Wilhelm will have found his stay satisfactory, I assure you." Inside, Charles was laughing at the stupidity of the conversation. The colonel had been in the command tent for a few hours at most, with food and drink, and with chairs more comfortable than in most people's houses. Yet the cousins now had to speak as if it were the gravest matter in Christendom.
"Good. Is he here?" Charles turned and gestured to one of his retainers, who in turn signalled to a rather grizzled looking captain. Eventually, the small crowd parted to reveal Karl-Wilhelm, who walked aloof back over to his uncle.
"Thank you." Louis eyed Charles' party. Plastered across each of the weary faces before him, between the suffering and longing, he saw a small nuance of something. Anticipation? Not quite. It was much more subtle.
Expectancy.
"And what does that cost me?" Louis spoke coolly.
"Fifty thousand livres." Louis laughed.
"Charles, I have always known you as a rational man. Surely you see that that figure is too great?" Charles remained unwavering.
"I feel it a fair figure. We could always take Wilhelm back and ransom him." The coolness with which the king spoke was disarming. The young colonel shivered.
"Charles, I can offer you thirty thousand at the most. Anything else and you would have to wait."
"So be it." Louis stared into the eyes of his cousin as he spoke, half of him in disbelief at what he was hearing, the other in reluctant acceptance. There was a pregnant pause.
"Fine. Take Wilhelm in full knowledge that the money will be yours by Christmas." Wilhelm stared on incredulous as he was handed once again to the king's captains.
"I wish for another clause to be implemented."
"And what would that be?" Louis cocked his head inquisitively.
"For the duration of your nephew's ransom, we shall see an end to hostilities. If you are able to pay me by Christmas, we shall convene for final negotiations. If not," Charles paused, eyeing each of his cousin's party as he waited for the right moment to speak, "I shall see to it that fighting does not stop until you have renounced your claim to my throne." There was an uncertain pause, filled with the expectation of Louis' reply. He was a military man. Surely he would not accept defeat so openly? Yet he did not accept wanton war either.
"Fine. Should anything happen to him, our agreement shall be rendered void." Charles smiled. It was not the detached smile of a victor, but the genuine smile of a man who has just secured peace.
"Naturally." Louis gave a smile in reply. "I shall see you at Christmas."
"Of course." Louis had already turned around, spurring his horse on towards his encampment, leaving his party to follow. Charles kept his horse still for a moment, watching his cousin as he rode off towards the horizon, before turning tail and doing the same.
Louis, Duke of Luxembourg
"Charles." Louis gave a somewhat curt nod by way of greeting as his cousin manoeuvred his horse closer to his own.
"Louis." Charles returned the gesture, though Louis was tired of pleasantries - the salutation washing off the aloofness of his expression. In truth, Louis was tired of a lot more than his cousin's grating attempts to remain agreeable. It had been seven years since he had inherited the duchy - with the last three of those being spent at war with the kingdom. Louis had always been regarded as a military man, or at least a competent soldier, yet no one wishes for war. Of course, there will always be those who claim to enjoy the rush of the mêlée; the thrill of driving steel into flesh. Louis could never understand these people - yes, he could use a sword, but he by no means revelled in war.
"I understand you wish to negotiate the return of my nephew. I trust he has not been maltreated." Louis opened the discussions still aloof.
"You trust correctly, Louis. Karl-Wilhelm will have found his stay satisfactory, I assure you." The duke eyed Charles, picking out the nuances in his expression. He sensed a sort of smugness - as much as accompanies one who has the luxury of commanding negotiations, though it confused him. Charles was never one to act in such a manner. He went to church enough times a day to despise even the most subtle hint of pride. Perhaps Louis had read his expression incorrectly? He looked again - yes, of course. It was not a look of smugness that stood before him, it was one of relief.
Charles was by no means a fighting man. Only God knew what he must have been going through for these last three years. It made perfect sense that he would be as relieved as any that fighting would soon be ceased.
"Good. Is he here?" Charles turned and gestured to one of his retainers, who in turn signalled to a rather grizzled looking captain. Eventually, the small crowd parted to reveal Karl-Wilhelm, who walked aloof back over to his uncle.
"Thank you." Louis eyed Charles' party. They seemed to share his cousin's sense of relief. To the left of his field of view stood a rather severe looking captain. Louis knew the sort - wholly set on serving their liege, and wholly without the wit to question anything. Even he, the venerable soldier, seemed tired of fighting.
"And what does that cost me?" Louis spoke coolly. He had sensed that he was not to get his nephew back without obligation.
"Fifty thousand livres." Louis laughed. Damn him! Surely Charles knew that the war had strained his coffers far enough?
"Charles, I have always known you as a rational man. Surely you see that that figure is too great?" Charles remained unwavering in the face of his cousin's plea.
"I feel it a fair figure. We could always take Wilhelm back and ransom him." The coolness with which the king spoke was disarming. Louis watched as Karl-Wilhelm shivered. Charles was in no way a tyrant ora despot, but the coldness in his voice could easily convince someone such. Louis has never seen him so detached.
"Charles, I can offer you thirty thousand at the most. Anything else and you would have to wait." Charles held his gaze resolute, boring mercilessly into the duke's face. Louis knew he only had one choice.
"So be it." The duke stared into the eyes of his cousin as he spoke, half of him in disbelief at what he was hearing, the other in reluctant acceptance. There was a pregnant pause.
In the distance, the rhythmic clip-clop of a horse's hooves could be heard as an elderly man took his crops to market. In the vacuum of war, it was easy to forget that life went on. hat he would give to be that elderly man now - ignorant of the duke's sordid situation. Louis took a deep breath.
"Fine. Take Wilhelm in full knowledge that the money will be yours by Christmas." Wilhelm stared on incredulous as he was handed once again to the king's captains. Louis could afford him only a mournful stare*- all he had had already been taken.
"I wish for another clause to be implemented."
"And what would that be?" Louis cocked his head inquisitively, taken aback by the suddenness of his cousin's outburst.
"For the duration of your nephew's ransom, we shall see an end to hostilities. If you are able to pay me by Christmas, we shall convene for final negotiations. If not," Charles paused, eyeing each of his Louis' party as he waited for the right moment to speak, "I shall see to it that fighting does not stop until you have renounced your claim to my throne." There was an uncertain pause, filled with the expectation of Louis' reply. Charles and his party knew full well that he was a military man, though he imagined that they held somewhat inflated ideas of his prowess. Louis watched shock sweep over their faces as he delivered his reply.
"Fine. Should anything happen to him, our agreement shall be rendered void." Louis spoke coolly, completely in control. His cousin smiled. It was not his earlier detached smile, but the genuine smile of a man who has just secured peace.
"Naturally." Louis gave a smile in reply. "I shall see you at Christmas."
"Of course." Louis was already riding back to he encampment has he spoke. The thundering of hooves growing further away from him told him that Charles was quick to follow. Now he only prayed that the months before would be kind.
Chapter Forty
"Charles." Louis nodded curtly as his cousin rode up to him. The pair hadn't seen each other for the best part of a year, but were in no position for pleasantries. Charles guided his horse so that he sat perpendicular to Louis.
"Louis." He returned the gesture of greeting, though it slipped unnoticed off Louis' expression, aloof, though not showing contempt.
In different circumstances, the two may have addressed each other with some alacrity. Charles had always liked his cousin, whom he found intelligent and witty. Likewise, Louis enjoyed the occasions on which a social visit to the royal estate would be necessitated. The king as articulate, and keen in conversation. Here, though, on the battlefield, Louis and Charles only acknowledged each other begrudgingly. Conversation aside from the formal negotiations was out of the question. The was the great tragedy of war, thought Charles, that cousins and brothers must come to regard each other in such cold manners. We will all die, but we must not live in contempt of our families.
"I understand you wish to negotiate the return of my nephew. I trust he has not been maltreated." Louis opened the discussions matter-of-factly.
"You trust correctly, Louis. Karl-Wilhelm will have found his stay satisfactory, I assure you." Inside, Charles was laughing at the stupidity of the conversation. The colonel had been in the command tent for a few hours at most, with food and drink, and with chairs more comfortable than in most people's houses. Yet the cousins now had to speak as if it were the gravest matter in Christendom.
"Good. Is he here?" Charles turned and gestured to one of his retainers, who in turn signalled to a rather grizzled looking captain. Eventually, the small crowd parted to reveal Karl-Wilhelm, who walked aloof back over to his uncle.
"Thank you." Louis eyed Charles' party. Plastered across each of the weary faces before him, between the suffering and longing, he saw a small nuance of something. Anticipation? Not quite. It was much more subtle.
Expectancy.
"And what does that cost me?" Louis spoke coolly.
"Fifty thousand livres." Louis laughed.
"Charles, I have always known you as a rational man. Surely you see that that figure is too great?" Charles remained unwavering.
"I feel it a fair figure. We could always take Wilhelm back and ransom him." The coolness with which the king spoke was disarming. The young colonel shivered.
"Charles, I can offer you thirty thousand at the most. Anything else and you would have to wait."
"So be it." Louis stared into the eyes of his cousin as he spoke, half of him in disbelief at what he was hearing, the other in reluctant acceptance. There was a pregnant pause.
"Fine. Take Wilhelm in full knowledge that the money will be yours by Christmas." Wilhelm stared on incredulous as he was handed once again to the king's captains.
"I wish for another clause to be implemented."
"And what would that be?" Louis cocked his head inquisitively.
"For the duration of your nephew's ransom, we shall see an end to hostilities. If you are able to pay me by Christmas, we shall convene for final negotiations. If not," Charles paused, eyeing each of his cousin's party as he waited for the right moment to speak, "I shall see to it that fighting does not stop until you have renounced your claim to my throne." There was an uncertain pause, filled with the expectation of Louis' reply. He was a military man. Surely he would not accept defeat so openly? Yet he did not accept wanton war either.
"Fine. Should anything happen to him, our agreement shall be rendered void." Charles smiled. It was not the detached smile of a victor, but the genuine smile of a man who has just secured peace.
"Naturally." Louis gave a smile in reply. "I shall see you at Christmas."
"Of course." Louis had already turned around, spurring his horse on towards his encampment, leaving his party to follow. Charles kept his horse still for a moment, watching his cousin as he rode off towards the horizon, before turning tail and doing the same.
Louis, Duke of Luxembourg
"Charles." Louis gave a somewhat curt nod by way of greeting as his cousin manoeuvred his horse closer to his own.
"Louis." Charles returned the gesture, though Louis was tired of pleasantries - the salutation washing off the aloofness of his expression. In truth, Louis was tired of a lot more than his cousin's grating attempts to remain agreeable. It had been seven years since he had inherited the duchy - with the last three of those being spent at war with the kingdom. Louis had always been regarded as a military man, or at least a competent soldier, yet no one wishes for war. Of course, there will always be those who claim to enjoy the rush of the mêlée; the thrill of driving steel into flesh. Louis could never understand these people - yes, he could use a sword, but he by no means revelled in war.
"I understand you wish to negotiate the return of my nephew. I trust he has not been maltreated." Louis opened the discussions still aloof.
"You trust correctly, Louis. Karl-Wilhelm will have found his stay satisfactory, I assure you." The duke eyed Charles, picking out the nuances in his expression. He sensed a sort of smugness - as much as accompanies one who has the luxury of commanding negotiations, though it confused him. Charles was never one to act in such a manner. He went to church enough times a day to despise even the most subtle hint of pride. Perhaps Louis had read his expression incorrectly? He looked again - yes, of course. It was not a look of smugness that stood before him, it was one of relief.
Charles was by no means a fighting man. Only God knew what he must have been going through for these last three years. It made perfect sense that he would be as relieved as any that fighting would soon be ceased.
"Good. Is he here?" Charles turned and gestured to one of his retainers, who in turn signalled to a rather grizzled looking captain. Eventually, the small crowd parted to reveal Karl-Wilhelm, who walked aloof back over to his uncle.
"Thank you." Louis eyed Charles' party. They seemed to share his cousin's sense of relief. To the left of his field of view stood a rather severe looking captain. Louis knew the sort - wholly set on serving their liege, and wholly without the wit to question anything. Even he, the venerable soldier, seemed tired of fighting.
"And what does that cost me?" Louis spoke coolly. He had sensed that he was not to get his nephew back without obligation.
"Fifty thousand livres." Louis laughed. Damn him! Surely Charles knew that the war had strained his coffers far enough?
"Charles, I have always known you as a rational man. Surely you see that that figure is too great?" Charles remained unwavering in the face of his cousin's plea.
"I feel it a fair figure. We could always take Wilhelm back and ransom him." The coolness with which the king spoke was disarming. Louis watched as Karl-Wilhelm shivered. Charles was in no way a tyrant ora despot, but the coldness in his voice could easily convince someone such. Louis has never seen him so detached.
"Charles, I can offer you thirty thousand at the most. Anything else and you would have to wait." Charles held his gaze resolute, boring mercilessly into the duke's face. Louis knew he only had one choice.
"So be it." The duke stared into the eyes of his cousin as he spoke, half of him in disbelief at what he was hearing, the other in reluctant acceptance. There was a pregnant pause.
In the distance, the rhythmic clip-clop of a horse's hooves could be heard as an elderly man took his crops to market. In the vacuum of war, it was easy to forget that life went on. hat he would give to be that elderly man now - ignorant of the duke's sordid situation. Louis took a deep breath.
"Fine. Take Wilhelm in full knowledge that the money will be yours by Christmas." Wilhelm stared on incredulous as he was handed once again to the king's captains. Louis could afford him only a mournful stare*- all he had had already been taken.
"I wish for another clause to be implemented."
"And what would that be?" Louis cocked his head inquisitively, taken aback by the suddenness of his cousin's outburst.
"For the duration of your nephew's ransom, we shall see an end to hostilities. If you are able to pay me by Christmas, we shall convene for final negotiations. If not," Charles paused, eyeing each of his Louis' party as he waited for the right moment to speak, "I shall see to it that fighting does not stop until you have renounced your claim to my throne." There was an uncertain pause, filled with the expectation of Louis' reply. Charles and his party knew full well that he was a military man, though he imagined that they held somewhat inflated ideas of his prowess. Louis watched shock sweep over their faces as he delivered his reply.
"Fine. Should anything happen to him, our agreement shall be rendered void." Louis spoke coolly, completely in control. His cousin smiled. It was not his earlier detached smile, but the genuine smile of a man who has just secured peace.
"Naturally." Louis gave a smile in reply. "I shall see you at Christmas."
"Of course." Louis was already riding back to he encampment has he spoke. The thundering of hooves growing further away from him told him that Charles was quick to follow. Now he only prayed that the months before would be kind.
To be continued...